Best Served Cold
by Avaritiae
Summary: Revenge is best served cold. An eye for an eye, a leg for a leg, a life for a life. She would repay her debt. Hermione Granger: a mudblood, a survivor of the war, and driven to the edge of insanity. She wanted nothing less than the bittersweet taste of vengeance. \\ Tomione \\ Time-Travel


**A/N **Huzzah! First HP Tomione Fanfic! I have been stalking the couple for quite a while now, and decided that 'tis time for me to write something down for the sake of my own imagination (not that I have any).So. This — of course — would involve time-travelling and all that jazz. But I hope it would be slightly different from the others.

**My superawesomemegafoxyultracoolamazinglytalented betas, _redbarnus, brightneeBee, and Lady Miya _are the god's gifts to the world. **

Thank you guys for enduring my laziness and bad writing, and fixing the chapter up for me!

I do not own _Harry Potter_.

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Chapter Playlist: "The Lonely" by Christina Perri

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Best Served Cold

Prelude.

"If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you" — Frederich Nietzsche

* * *

_21 July, 1942_

_15:01_

* * *

When one contemplates revenge, there is a rush of neural activity in the caudate nucleus — the sector of the brain that is known for processing rewards and positive emotions. This was the final confirmation for the common saying, which has been scorned upon for years before: revenge is sweet.

A thirst for vengeance is nothing if not timeless, Hermione knew very well. It is as classic as Homer and Hesiod, and as contemporary as Don Corleone and Quentin Tarantino; as old as the eyes and teeth traded in the Bible, and as unforgettable as the Battle that took the life of her best friends, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. Not matter how distant the memory has been, Hermione could not deny the tightening of her throat and the throbbing of her heart. The haunting shadows of the past would forever be a stain on her soul — an impurity; imperfection. A reminder of what Hermione Granger could have been: dead.

If only she has not been selfish, she would have been amongst the honorary wizards and witches who had sacrificed themselves, instead of sitting here, being _alive_ and full of bitterness and unrelinquished sufferings. If only she could redeem herself, she was sure that the guilt would be gone from her heart. If only.

But while the idea of revenge is no doubt delectable, much of its sugar is only confined to the coating. The actual execution of revenge will no doubt carry a bitter cost of her time, emotions, and the entirety of her existence. An eye for an eye, a leg for a leg, a life for a life. She would repay her debt.

_Besides, _Hermione added bitterly, _the world would be better off if Voldemort was dead in the first place._

Dumbledore had warned her about the dangers of such feelings before his untimely demise. That instead of delivering rightful justice, revenge would only bring about a cycle of retaliation — ultimately, it was a cruel game played by Fate; its bored presence preying upon those unfortunate enough to tempt its fancy.

_But it doesn't matter anymore, does it?_

When all is set and done, there would be nothing remaining for Hermione to feel regretful about. Emotions would simply elude her grasp. For the first time in her sixteen years of existence, Hermione felt truly empty. The inescapable void lingered on, dragging her body down into its mystic abyss, something that she had denied herself for so long. but only now that it was rather...comforting. She somewhat — secretly — relished the notion of being consumed by darkness, literally and figuratively.

In order to take someone's life, the murderer must be spotless. She must be the girl who absolutely nobody will notice, let alone being suspected. She must remain undetectable and above all, _innocent._ She will destroy them in ways that they had so mercilessly ripped apart the Order and Hogwarts; all the pains, tears, and agonies will be revived. Their shrieks of torment will be the heaven's hymn to her aching ears. It was an eerie and uncontrolled lust, slowly yet steadily blossoming in Hermione; the absolute need to see them — _him _— suffer. All the sneer and crude remarks that been showered down to her by their elegantly masked faces, all the countless _crucios _that pierced her heart again and again, they will but be the incentive for Hermione to breath and live to see another day. She will see the end to them all. One by one, they will be begging at her feet, matted with dried blood and drenched in sweat like any lowsome slave.

But Hermione knew, in order for her to manifest these considerably unholy visions of hers, she must remain inconspicuous. That was the utmost importance above all others. It would definitely not do her any good if she suddenly showed up in Hogwarts of the 1940s one day, without any proof of existence or a stable background, and started to practice magic befitting of an adult. Or worse, getting caught with the wrong crowd of students. The Gryffindor know-it-all façade simply won't be part of her survival tool kit. She would have to be invisible.

Invincible.

The reestablishment of universal justice will certainly be at the heart of the act. Accomplishing a deed like such should take no difficulty — quick execution, without any strings attached; and of course, it was for the greater good too, after all. It was simply child's play, all of which Hermione was too familiar with. Check and mate, the Queen will annihilate the King and his Knights.

* * *

_31 July, 1942_

_13:11_

* * *

"Bloody hell,"

She had pricked her finger on the pencil once again. It was definitely time to get some of her own magical writing utensils. Hermione scowled at no one in particular as the blood oozed out of the tiny wound, ever so slowly trailing down to the white paper, tainting the purity with its crimson shadows. It almost seemed natural to her that destruction was _that _easy.

_Lips red as blood; skin pale as snow._

Smirking rancorously, Hermione peered down at the fairy tale book lying on her lap. Ludicrous tales set on mythical premises; where castles loomed across lands, where happy endings were of existence, where evils were destroyed, where there was always a savior. Her bloodied finger grazed over the pages of the book. Dashing young princes, beautiful maidens — they had all trickled down to nothing at Death's inevitable grasp, as if mocking the reader's mortality.

Then again, Hermione was all too aware of such petty fact. It was only a matter of time when her own culmination arrives.

She had found it to be beyond absurdity when she stumbled across an antique, hardbound edition of _Andersen's Tales _in the small bedroom, let alone belonging to a boy. Scanning around the room for anything else useful that might reveal more clues into the personality of the tiny figure, who was currently sleeping peacefully on the wobbly bed that looked as if it was going to collapse any second, Hermione's right hand habitually brushed against the wand sitting peacefully in her cloak pocket. The wood sent warm tinges of magic up her fingertips, travelling to her spine and down to her toes. It had jolted her alive — the power that she had wielded was unmatched only by a few seasoned wizards.

Frankly, Hermione hadn't intentionally wanted to use the poor boy for her mission; she had wanted to leave the bystanders out of the plan, for not only was it too risky, but she would never forgive herself if she had saw another light of life flickering out of an innocent pair of eyes. It would remind her too much of _that._

_No, _she shook herself. There was no time to ponder over what has happened; all it mattered now was what had laid in front of her, the incoming September, the pounding of her heart in anticipation, and the fear — the fear of failure. The aftermath would be hell on Earth if she messes up even the tiniest bit. Every step was planned down to the miniscule detail. Everything must be perfection.

The eleven-year-old boy's name was Alec Sades. Born to a bland, working-class Muggle family unaware of magic until today, much to Hermione's delight (and, as much as she hates to admit, sadness). The quick spell of _Oblivion_ had erased any memories of magical hopes from their minds, the Muggle family would only wake up from their slumber, casting it off as a case of light fever. To put it frankly, Hermione was quite proud of her intricate devising. It was only moments like these that she could truly appreciate what her brain had offered her as the greatest asset, intelligence.

Wordlessly, she pointed her wand at the boy's head. His childish face was half hidden by the thin blanket that was covered in strange brown stains that Hermione dared not to touch. There has been so much potential in him — Hermione was sure that he could have achieved great things in the Wizarding World, had she not been driven to the brink of desperation for a way to get herself in the perimeter of that inhuman monster.

Yes, everything was Lord Voldemort's fault. At least, that was a reason that was enough to convince Hermione.

A handful of blonde hair from the boy's head floated into her awaiting hand, but there were no physical signs of the hair removal on the boy himself. She stared impassively down at the strands, lying limply in her palm, its merry golden hue dancing off the sunshine and ridiculing the murky chasm in Hermione's eyes. The amount was enough to last her for at least three months — during the time which she would have to retrieve more for the Polyjuice Potion. She had specifically picked a boy from the illegally obtained list of incoming First Years for the sole reason of remaining inconspicuous under the watchful eyes of _Him; _any girl would be in danger of being a victim of his charm and tactics, or so Hermione had recalled from a conversation with Har–_no. _She will not think about the deceased. She has to focus on the task at hand.

Hair. Trunk. School supplies. Robes. Hogwarts' Acceptance Letter. Train ticket.

Hastily stuffing the needed materials into the charmed handbag, Hermione did anything she could to distract her thoughts from anything but her current mission. She took one last wistful look at her surroundings, taking in every little detail of the decrepit little bedroom from the peeling wallpaper to the broken glass window to the splintered wooden chair, and finally to the peaceful, sleeping body on the bed, the sheer childishness and optimism stood out against the harsh conditions of his setting. She willed herself not to break down like all those times before.

"I'm sorry," she murmured softly to the sleeping figure. He did not stir.

There were no more courage in Hermione for her to look at the boy without feeling the pangs of guilt suffocating her. It was a difficult concept to grasp, that she had just changed the life course of another human being (Is this what _power _felt like? She wondered to herself) — what the young boy could have been, he was now no more. The Muggleborn Alec Sades was now another Muggle with unexplained abilities, trying to survive in the slums of London, no knowledge whatsoever of magic would remain. The Muggleborn Alec Sades would have no idea that he could have attended a school named Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The Polyjuice Alec Sades would wield magic, doing things that many only dreamed of doing — he would be immersed in a world of possibilities. The Polyjuice Alec Sades would kill the Dark Lord. The Mudblood Hermione Granger would be forgotten.

* * *

_1 September 1942_

_22:38_

* * *

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Rested in the security of the shadows, the grandfather clock in the Entrance Hall seemed to be extra loud for Hermione tonight. Each second passed with an obnoxious sound ignited from the golden pendulum, its shade strangely reminiscent of the time-turner, tugging at various strings to her memory — as if she didn't have enough reminders of the past already. Trampled down by the excited students, her current state of physique was in no shape whatsoever to defend itself; after all, being in the body of an eleven-year-old boy was probably not the best armor against hundreds of other squirming magical pre-teens. It was so, _so_ similar to her experience as a real First Year. She remembered, perfectly, of the rushing up the stairs, the anticipation in their hearts as they waited by the castle doors, the introduction by Professor McGonagall prior to entering (only now, it was Professor Dumbledore), and the Sorting.

The surroundings were all too similar to how Hermione had remembered: peaceful, cheery, as if everything else in the world did not matter. It was not how things were supposed to be. She suddenly felt suffocated, claustrophobic.

"Ruttinger, Marie," an ill-looking, skinny girl with pale hair stumbled through the wooden doors, leading into the Great Hall. Almost few seconds later, she was sorted into Hufflepuff.

Hermione knew the students with surnames starting with the letter _R _were getting close to being finished when "Ryzinski, Xavier" was called by the booming voice of Albus Dumbledore — that, and the alarming fact that she was next in line, standing millimeters away from the door that was about to be opened for her.

She took in three gigantic intakes of oxygen. _There is really nothing to it, you have done this before. _It was only an old, semi-lunatic hat charmed with magic; it was not at all threatening. She prayed to the greater powers — whoever they were — that the omniscent Sorting Hat would not be so inclined to place her into Gryffindor like it did once, or worse, deciding to revealing her identity to the professors.

Being a boy was still something that Hermione needed to get used to, especially the wild caramel mane that was called hair was now replaced by somewhat manageable, smooth blonde locks belonging to a male. She frowned to herself. Her–_his _appearance was a bit more fair that she would have liked. There would be one or two admirers soon, that was for sure, and it only slowed her plan. Attention from others were the last thing she needed. An idea of using magic to alter her appearance didn't sound too bad right now, though it would only add to her never ending list of lies and To-Do's.

"Sades, Alec," Hermione's stomach immediately flipped. All the organs that were kept inside her body were ready to burst out, which wasn't exactly the best image to have in her head before the Sorting. Hermione chuckled darkly to herself.

Admittedly, she had half-expected for "Granger, Hermione," to be called again. _Just like how it was before..._her heart squeezed.

A temporary wave of melancholy and forlornness slowly crept up on her conscious, for it was only now that Hermione realized just how truly alone she was this time; here she was, strolling up through the doors, eyes cast to the patched brown hat set on the three-legged stool, students, professors, and who knows what else watching her, that a twinge of alienation hit her. In 1942, her existence was unknown. She was not yet a human. There were no Harry, the Weasleys, or Crookshanks to watch over her. There were only despair, and Tom Riddle.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

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**A/N **The name, Alec Sades is derived from the words _blood sacrifices_ _—_ which would come into play later in the story.

A review would be awesome :)


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